I am Become Death, the Destroyer of Worlds
by partiallykritikal
Summary: Hermione Granger snaps and unleashes fire and death upon the wizarding world as only a muggleborn can.


I don't feel like normal people do. I've known this since I was young – watching little children running around on the playground expressing care and sympathy in towering amounts. Why should what happens to others affect them? What does it matter?

Of course, this wasn't normal behavior for a five-year-old – or for anyone older for that matter. It wasn't acceptable in _society_. A few visits to a psychologist led me to that conclusion _very_ quickly. So, I learned to blend in. Rules became my moral guide – after all, if they were what society was meant to follow, why shouldn't they be the best metric for me? Of course, that didn't always work out so well.

I think that was why I spent so much time trying to get House Elves rights. Not like I actually cared about the little buggers. So long as they made me food and cleaned my laundry, did it matter? They weren't friends, so it was pointless to care. But _society_ said that slavery was wrong, so shouldn't I be campaigning to free them? Yeah, well, that didn't work out – it turns out most people actually _don't care_ , no matter what they might say, so long as it's "always" been that way. Not having to deal with change is more important to most of the sheep than actually doing something they're supposed to consider right. So, I moved on. I mean, did you think I would have actually named the organization "SPEW" if I gave a damn? I could have rearranged the words to make it the "Elvish Welfare Promotion Society" in all of two minutes.

But I _did_ care about Harry, and, to a lesser extent, Ron. I don't know what it was about Harry that made me actually like him, but I did. Maybe it was the fact that his childhood was even shittier than mine (you don't think normal people ended up like me, did you?) or maybe it was because he was like a little broken toy that I wanted to analyze and study. But whatever the case, he grew on me. He became important. Attached. He kept me grounded, his own strong sense of right and wrong making up for my basically non-existent one. When the blood-purists and bigots who thought they were better than me spewed insults, the only thing that kept me from killing them all in the night was the thought that Harry might be mad at me. Might be disgusted with me.

Then they killed him.

It was in the dead of night a week or so before Fleur and Bill's wedding. Death Eaters accompanied by Voldemort himself managed to sneak past the ward line without anyone noticing. The Dark Lord set up containment wards and unleased Fiendfyre. They died pounding on doors, screaming as they were burned to death by the unholy flames.

At the same time, Ministry Aurors, now under control of Death Eaters, were dispatched to kill all known mudbloods. They visited my house and broke down the door, instantly killing my Father and Mother who were in the sitting room watching TV. Not that I cared – they had never really wanted me, and said as much on multiple occasions. I disrupted their perfect upper-class lifestyle, especially when it turned out I was a witch and couldn't follow them into dentistry. But the Death Eaters made a mistake – the time they took to murder my parents gave me time to jump out of a window and make my way into muggle London. Anti-Apparation wards are only useful when your prey has no other means of escape.

It didn't take me long to figure out that I couldn't go to the Burrow. A Special Edition of the Daily Prophet was put out announcing the victory of Voldemort over the "filthy mudbloods and blood traitors" contaminating beautiful wizarding society. They didn't bother to take any of the surviving members of the light off of the mailing list, so I got my owl as I was camped out outside a Tube station trying to get warm. Hogwarts was expected to fall within the week as Death Eater curse-breakers were already hard at work dismantling the wards. Not that it really mattered – if the Dark Lord could get in perched atop Quirrell's head first year he could probably sneak through again.

And that leads me to where I am now – overlooking the Clyde Naval Base and the HMS _Vanguard_ a week later. They were fools to think that I wouldn't retaliate, and greater fools still to overlook the power of the muggle world. When _Little Boy_ dropped on Hiroshima in 1945 it released a force equal to 15,000 _tons_ of TNT. Today, the submarine in front of me carries forty warheads, each a hundred times more powerful than were available in World War II.

Getting into the submarine was pitifully easy – a notice me not, a disillusionment charm, and a few _imperio'_ s _._ Stealing the launch keys from the captain and first mate were just a simple. Reprogramming the target computer for Little Hangleton was slightly harder but some "help" from one of the technicians and everything was ready (it was hardwired for Washington, D.C. – who knew we were so scared of our "allies"). I had selected one of the missiles designed for small-radius bunker destruction – there's no reason to kill any more people than necessary.

I didn't even hesitate as I turned the keys and felt the entire craft shake with the release of the missile. I ran outside, through the cramped confines of the ship and out onto the deck. Alarms were blaring from everywhere as people rushed about trying to figure out why the pinnacle of the military might of the British Navy was arcing through the sky. To me, though, it was a sign of success. A sign that Harry and Ron were being avenged. A sign that proved nobody could hurt me and get away with it.

* * *

"I am Become Death, the Destroyer of Worlds"  
\- J Robert Oppenheimer, father of the Atomic Bomb

I've wanted to write a story where the light uses muggle technology for a while now, and also one with a dark Hermione. This is what came out. I won't be expanding it any, as I feel like the ending fits. The HMS Vanguard is a real ship, one of four Nuclear Missile submarines in the service of the British Navy. It calls from the Clyde Naval Base in Scotland and carries forty nuclear warheads atop eight Trident-II Submarine-Launched Ballistic Missiles. I don't think I'll write something quite this dark again, but if I'm in the mood I might put out another oneshot like this one.

Sincerely, ~partiallykritikal


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